


Red

by disco_theque



Category: U2
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, PWP, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 14:43:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12866697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disco_theque/pseuds/disco_theque
Summary: Bono missed Edge during the Red Shop-a-thon.





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, hey, hello!
> 
> I missed Edge last night during the Red Shop-a-thon, and I imagine Bono did, as well - charming as he was, the show was all over the place, and my brain filled in the end of the evening. 
> 
> Also, when Bono wears an all-black tuxedo like that... it needs written about.

“There you are.” He startles, slightly, at my voice, but his lips turn up in a smile, and I can see the sparkle in his eyes, even from the audience back row of this dim soundstage.

The red walls, red fixtures, red everything, cast a glow, a warmth that I know is not at all unlike the fire that’s coursing through his blood - my little fireball, decked out in a bespoke, entirely-black tuxedo, leaning against a (red, naturally) piano, absently twirling a prop martini glass in his little hand. His smile grows after he takes me in; we are mismatched as can be, but I’m in California-mode, and my lightweight jeans and t-shirts are all I’d thought to pack for this trip.

“I’m sorry I didn’t make the taping,” I begin to explain, still from the top of the empty audience section, but he holds up a hand to stop my apology. We’ve been doing this long enough, our own projects, appearances, events, so we have learned that we can’t possibly attend everything for each other. California has become a second home for me, and with that, has come a host of commitments and responsibilities. He understands, I know he does, so I don’t press on - he doesn’t need or want my excuse.

“Join me, Reg.”

He’s still regarding me with that smile, and he runs his hand through his hair and shakes his head a little, my little peacock, preening for me, and he knows he doesn’t need to impress me anymore, that he has me for life, but I know he loves this, so I laugh to myself and start down the stairs toward him.

“This felt good, tonight,” he says, a little more thoughtful than I’d expected, then he sets the martini glass down and takes my hand in his. He’s warm, a little flushed from the stage lights, but he’s less frenetic than after a big show, more calm, more quiet.

“The clips I saw looked great. The black and white? You were a regular Sinatra.”

“Was it too…” he trails off to find the word, “Schmaltzy?”

“I think that’s what America needed, this year,” I reply quickly; I can see the hint of uncertainty in his eyes and I know he worries about this sort of thing, no matter how many appreciative back-pats he gets. “Besides, with that monstrosity of a horn Diddy was holding at the end? They’re going to love it when this airs tonight, B.”

That breaks his doubt in the evening, he’s chuckling now. “Bryan insisted on that trumpet bit, and Diddy refused to be out-done. We threw together quite a motley crew here, didn’t we?”

“It was great,” I squeeze his hand and he smiles, no doubt thinking about some of the backstage conversations that must have transpired. We’re quiet for a moment, then he laughs out loud and shakes his head.

“What is it?”

“A rather crass joke just made its way into my head,” he grins now, and I can at once see the teenager I befriended so long ago in the schoolyard, and I’m always amazed at how quickly he can turn a mood like this. “All these horns around…” he laughs at himself before even finishing the thought, “Forgive me for the cheap pun, Reg, but I didn’t get a turn blowing anything tonight.”

“Oh, Bono…” I rub my fingertips against my eyelids in mock disdain, and when I look back at him, he’s pouting as though I’ve shot down his latest plans to change the world. “How long did it take you to come up with that one?”

“It just came to me!” he insists, but I can see that spark in his eyes again, and I’m sure he’d planned this out hours ago and was just waiting for me to get here. I can’t help but reach up to his undone bow tie, and I pull at it gently (“What’s the point of a tie if you’re not going to tie it?” I had asked him, years ago, as we were dressing for a photoshoot. “It’s all about the _image_ ,” he had replied, “It gives them something to think about.” We were needed on set, so I didn’t get to ask what exactly he wanted them to think about, but when I saw the proofs when our shoot was done, I couldn’t ignore the rush of heat that overwhelmed me).

“They can dress you up, but you’re still my lad from Dublin,” I marvel, as I slip the bow tie from around his neck, and I rub the silk between my thumb and fingertips. It feels expensive, but I don’t even want to know. He’s staring at my hand now, watching my fingers shift the fabric around, and when I tighten my fingers a little, I hear his breath catch, the slightest bit. It’s so quiet, so still, on this stage, and it’s so red, all around us.

“I knew that line would work,” his voice is lower now, and I’m not sure why his coy little lines have continued to work on me after all this time, but he’s never been incorrect and I don’t know how he’s always a half-step ahead of me, but it’s not until I acknowledge this that I realize my mouth has gone dry. “When I told Jimmy that I want to do all of this,” he turns his head a little and regards the leftover props and the massive check, leant up against the wall, “But still have fun? This is what I meant.”

He takes his bow tie out of my hand and sets it on the piano, and laces his fingers with mine. I can’t help but raise our hands up and turn them so he has to spin around in front of me, and the way his tux is fitted to his body makes me gulp, and I would feel a little bad, objectifying him like this, but I know he likes showing off for me. When he’s properly facing me again, he inches up on his tiptoes and places a soft kiss against my lips, and I wonder if he’s going to be like this, sweet and playful tonight, but then he’s pressing me against the piano and brushing his fingers along the hem of my shirt.

“Hop up,” he says, raising his chin up a little, and it’s such a tiny gesture, but I can’t help but get caught on the expanse of neck he shows off, with his nearly-half-unbuttoned shirt (another part of that “image” he taught us all about on that heated photoshoot).

“You sure?”

“Edge…” it’s a light warning, his tone, but I know better than to get in the way of his plans. The piano isn’t particularly tall, but I make a show of hoisting myself up, just to draw a grin out of him. He gently moves my knees and stands between my legs, and his hands start squeezing my thighs so I have to take a deep breath. I move my hands to his shoulders, but when I slip them under the fabric of his jacket, he stills, and levels me with a look. “This is a formal affair, Reg,” he breathes on a laugh, then drops his voice into something lower, darker, “I’m keeping the tux on.”

“Oh, B…” I sigh as he sets his glasses on the piano bench, then works his fingers back around my waist and moves in toward me. I have to bend forward a little to kiss him, but it’s worth the angle for the way I can feel him smiling into our kiss. It’s not long before his hands are fully under my shirt, and they trail warmth in meandering paths, and it makes me involuntarily shiver. He bites down on my lower lip at that, then breaks away for a moment to pull my shirt off. It occurs to me that we are in a very public place, in the middle of a soundstage, but he presses his tongue against my right nipple, and pinches his fingers around the left, and I can’t remember why I should be bothered to care about where we are.

“I missed you today,” he murmurs against my chest, the sweet honesty in his voice surprising me a little. “All of this - all of these people - they’re so wonderful, but they’re not, they don’t…” he places a few kisses along my stomach that make me shift around some, “They don’t get me the way you do, Reg.”

“Bono,” I start, and have to clear my throat before continuing because he’s unzipping my jeans, then inching them and my underwear down. “You are the most special breed.” He hums a happy little sound at that, and then his breath is hot near my groin and my hands move to his hair. I’m surprised he doesn’t protest to that on this formal night of his, but he leans up into my touch and I have to laugh at this peacock, this cat, of mine.

“I let it go a little messy tonight,” he says, and it takes me more than a moment to realize he’s talking about his hair.

I run my fingers through his hair, and scratch a little at the back of his neck. “I like it.” He responds by taking me in his mouth, and he looks up at me with hooded eyes when I groan. If I maintain this eye contact with him, I know it’ll all be over too fast, so I throw my head back on a deep breath. The studio lights catch my attention, and I can’t help but think, in a bit of a haze, about the beautiful fundraising Bono just completed here. “Hey,” I manage to get out, tugging on his hair a little so he has to pull back some.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his brow furrowed, an “I can’t believe you’re stopping me,” smile on his face.

“Have I ever told you how proud I am of you?” He just laughs, with the slightest shake of his head, but I can see the love shining in his eyes, so I continue. “Bono… All of this. You made this all happen.” He leans back in and takes me back in his mouth, but I can’t stop. “You have made so many people’s lives better… made them _possible_ , and you give and give so much of yourself. And you just… you make everyone around you do more, do better. Do you know how much five hundred million dollars _is_ , Bono?” He chuckles around me and it shoots fires through my veins. “I… Jesus, Bono… I wouldn’t be half the man I am today if I didn’t have you… next to me,” he laughs again, “Under me,” I add. He pulls off of me again and licks his lips, and I can’t help but lean down and kiss him again.

“Thank you,” he whispers, barely loud enough to hear, before taking me in his mouth once more, hard this time, deeper this time. I have to close my eyes, tight, and still, all I see is red, and it’s all I can feel as he works his tongue in a way that makes me scrape my fingernails against the hard surface of the piano. After only another moment, I arch my back and groan and it echoes across the empty stage and he stands up straight so I can slump against him, and he strokes my back through it. The fiery red subdues into a calmer one, and when I open my eyes, he’s right there, so close his smile looks blurry.

“You’re amazing at that, too,” I say when I’ve caught my breath, and it sounds a little more porny than I’d like, but his smile just grows and he doesn’t seem to mind. He hands my shirt to me and I hop off the piano, a little shaky, while he adjusts his shirt and jacket.

“Want to have a little more fun?” He asks, and I can only imagine what he’s getting at now. Before I can question him, he’s got me by the hand and he’s leading me out of the studio. “There’s an electric scooter somewhere backstage…”


End file.
